Once one has seen God, what is the remedy?

The door of the novel, like the door of the poem, also shuts. But not so fast, nor with such manic, unanswerable finality.

I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.

I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.

It is a terrible thing to be so open: it is as if my heart put on a face and walked into the world.

I write only because There is a voice within me That will not be still

* to know a lot of people I love pieces of, and to want to synthesize those pieces in me somehow, be it by painting or writing. * to know that millions of others are unhappy and that life is a gentleman's agreement to grin and paint your face gay so others will feel they are silly to be unhappy, and try to catch the contagion of joy, while inside so many are dying of bitterness and unfulfillment.